The True Love Story of a Liar and a notyet Thief
by JD11
Summary: He pulled her to him, feeling her nakedness against his clothed body. Her lips were slightly parted; her cheeks blushed. He had known all along how he felt about Sophie, but it was in this moment when he knew it- he was in love with Sophie Devereaux.
1. June 1999 to September 2001

He pulled her to him, feeling her nakedness against his clothed body. Her lips were slightly parted; her cheeks had reddened, almost blushed. He had known all along how he felt about Sophie, but it was in this moment when he knew it- he was in love with Sophie Devereaux.

Nate was the only man who had the strength to chase her, knowing that, in the end, he would have to let her go. He was also the only man stupid enough to never stop chasing.

_Summary: _

/-/-/-

**The True Love Story of a Liar and a not-yet Thief. **

Nate has never spoken about how he and Sophie first met, ten years ago, in Prague. And certainly he is quite right for doing so considering that he and Sophie did not meet because Nate had hunted her down or because Sophie cleverly escaped him. No, Nate first met Sophie when she successfully conned him.

Ten years ago, a rather splendid collection of 19th century art__was displayed in Prague. In particular, a two million dollar Degas painting, insured by IYS, was there. IYS__sent Nate to ensure that nothing happened to it.

It was 1999, June. Nathan Ford was, at the time, thirty-four years old. He had been working with the company for the past ten years, give or take a few months. Three weeks ago marked his fourth anniversary of marriage to his wife, Maggie, who was currently at home in LA with their nine month old son.

Let's remember that Nate was a good Catholic and an honest man. He loved his wife very dearly, and possibly loved his son more. He had no time for cheaters and was truly disgusted by the thought of promiscuous men. He was married and his mind and libido understood that. Unfortunately, his eyes did not. Or, at least, not this once.

Part of the collection also included three paintings donated by Dame Katherine Owen. Nate knew this- as he knew everything about the collection- but, what he didn't know, was exactly what Dame Katherine Owen looked like. He found this out at precisely 8.34 pm on Monday the twenty-second when she entered the exhibit.

He noticed her eyes first. Brown, warm and deep. He couldn't imagine her ever being able to hide emotions.

He saw her face next, the complete vision of beauty. High cheek bones. Tanned but not exactly olive skin. Full, pouty lips.

Her hair was pulled back, but strands of wavy hair were purposely falling against her cheeks, not quite into her eyes. He imagined instead her hair down, curled around her shoulders, framing her slender face. Both were quite spectacular.

His eyes roamed down. Strong but delicate neck. Bare shoulders. Purple fabric clung to a full bust and sensuous hips. The material fell nearly to the floor, covering what he expected were shapely legs.

She grew closer and he heard her speak. Music, that's what her voice reminded him of. The tone of her voice, the feminine inflections, the foreign dips and rises of her English accent, the carefully chosen words- she was a composer and he was lucky enough to be in attendance of her latest performance.

She was approaching him. On her side, Mr. Markovic, the owner of the Degas, was speaking to her in his slightly broken English. "And this is Mr. Ford. Mr. Ford, this is Dame Katherine Owen."

"Mr. Ford, pleasure."

He didn't think that she could possibly look any more beautiful. And then she smiled. Anything written that attempted to describe such a sight would merely fall into cliché, but the immediate thought of Nathan Ford was that she looked like a Greek goddess reborn into the perfectly formed body of an English Dame. When she smiled, the world became only about her.

"Dame."

"Dame Katherine graciously contributed pieces from her own collection to our exhibit tonight."

"Yes, I noticed that. You have good taste."

"Thank you. They are some of my favourites. Though," she said as she turned to Mr. Markovic, "Degas is my favourite artist."

"Good to know." She turned and smiled at him again and he couldn't help but smile back at her. It gave him plans to keep her smiling all night.

"Mr. Ford works for my insurance company- he's here to make sure that nothing... happens." Sophie nodded at Markovic, but her eyes were focused on Nate. "Excuse me for a moment. I'll be right back." Markovic fled to the left, but Nate didn't pay any attention to why he was leaving. His eyes were trained on the Dame.

"So you protect artwork, Mr. Ford?"

"I track down the thieves who steal them, specifically. But sometimes prevention is a much easier course."

"I would imagine."

"And you can call me Nate."

"Nate. I'm Katherine." He smiled at her again and she smiled back. Then her arm slipped into his and she led him away from the centre of the room. "Let's go find ourselves something to drink."

Now don't be fooled into thinking that Nate had suddenly lost all inhibitions, forgot completely about his wife and child, and jumped into bed with Dame Katherine. No, hardly. For right now, this woman meant nothing to his heart, and even very little to his incredible intellect, but she was doing quite a lot to his mind. Remember, this is merely the start of a very long and rather obtusely complex love story. The sex and all that come later. For right now it's important to remember that Dame Katherine, aka Sophie, managed to distract Nate all night.

And by distract, I mean she kept his eyes on her and his mind deeply entrenched in their conversation. There were people he was supposed to be talking to and security systems and things that he was supposed to be looking at. He was supposed to have arranged to see a test of the system that night. None of which he did. Had he done so, Nate very likely would have noticed a slight deficit in the museum's sensors or noticed the camera's blind spot.

The next morning Nate showed up to the museum promptly one hour before the gallery opened. He found the Degas missing, the guards clueless, and no evidence to follow. The next three days he spent desperately searching for clues, pacifying the museum curator, his boss, and the painting's owner.

There were never any official clues that led anywhere. They never had a real suspect; the Degas never appeared, as far as he could tell, on the black market. But he was pretty certain he knew who had done it. The night after the theft, a note appeared on his hotel pillow. It was scrawled in black ink, the handwriting large with elegant loops and quite evidently female. All it said was, 'I had a lovely night. Sorry to ruin your morning. -S'.

It took twenty months to find her again. February of 2001 he was sent to Damascus to monitor the movement of five extremely delicate paintings. They had been bought in private auction and were being shipped to Paris and then back to the states. He was responsible for making sure they made it there.

Of course, there was one woman who had self-imposed the responsibility upon herself to make sure that something made it there, just not the five paintings.

Her entrance this time was less glamorous- no extensive make-up or fancy gowns or perfectly styled hair- and yet it was no less impressive. She stood tall, even against the well built men flanking her. She had her face hidden behind blue silk and her skin glistened with a healthy tan and a hint of sweat.

Nate couldn't tell immediately who she was, not behind her veil. Her voice rang strangely in his ears and, for a short time, he believed the accent. He also believed the con, but only briefly.

Rida Ismail she had called herself. Said she worked for Dhamir al-Sahhah, the original owner of the pieces. She was there to ensure that things went well on their end. But there was something about the way she spoke- her cadence, her inflections, her eyes- that set alarms off in Nate's head.

Of course this is a love story, not a crime novel, so the details will be spared. In the end, Nate switched the crates, which had already been switched, so that the proper artwork was on the plane and heading to Paris, where someone from his company would be waiting for it. The fake artwork was on its way with the Middle Eastern men who had accompanied "Rida". And Rida, she__was handcuffed and in a car heading to the airport with Nate.

Every now and then he would glance over at her and smirk at the sight of her. Her veil had been yanked, rather abruptly from her head when she began sulking twenty minutes ago. Her lips were drawn into a pout and she refused to look at him, just huffed in annoyance now and then.

"So who are you really?"

"Just telling you would be far too easy. No, Mr. Ford, you'll have to figure that out all on your own."

Ironically enough, these were exactly the first words they ever spoke to each other. The first words, of course, when there were no pretences, when they were both at their absolute basic of identities: Nate, the honourable good-guy and Sophie, the dazzling liar and thief.

When they made it to the airport, she held her veil in her cuffed hands and objected, even struggled some, when he wrapped his firm hard around her elbow. He hushed her and, after that, she waited, oddly patiently, as they navigated their way to and through security. Until, of course, he was asked for his passport.

"It was just here." He patted his coat and pockets and searched through his briefcase, all the while giving his prisoner only a fraction of the attention he should have. When he straightened, she was gone. "Where'd she go?"

"Who, sir?"

"The woman who was with me. The one in the cuffs."

The Syrian looked at him strangely and pointed just in time for Nate to look up and see his prisoner waltzing through security, likely with a diplomatic passport. She waved at him, free of her cuffs, and smiled devilishly.

He didn't find his passport, which kept him detained and unable to follow her. Without her and unable to produce the faked artwork, he had very little to report to his boss when he returned. What he did find, though, was another small piece of paper, embellished with looping figures. It read, 'Sophie Devereaux. I'm looking forward to next time.'

Now you may think that the thirty-five year old Nathan Ford was not quite as perceptive or clever as the forty-four year old Nate, who founded the Leverage team. You may think that he simply overlooked how Sophie kept her hands hidden by the veil while she was busily freeing herself from the cuffs. You may think that he overlooked her struggling against him, which was her perfect opportunity to snatch his passport and slip the paper into his pocket. He didn't, of course, because Nathan Ford has always been as good as he is. And that's why he knew that Sophie had no interest in stealing the paintings and why she manipulated him into switching them for her, so she could blame him and not her own deception when the Syrians questioned her. That's why she had the foresight to write him a note and why he had the courtesy to turn a blind eye to her while he searched for his passport. All of two days together and they were already a pretty fine team.

Four months later he was in London, England. It was Sunday and his day off. He was flying back the next morning. He was sitting, enjoying the view, his coffee, and the Sunday paper, when he saw her again.

Or, more accurately, heard her. "Hello, Nathan."

He smiled as the voice- the playful tone and the polished British accent- filtered through his memory and her face registered in his mind. He imagined the first time they met- Dame Katherine in her long flowing gown and her dark bangs curled around her face, her brown eyes focused solely on him all evening.

"Didn't expect to see you here."

"London has quite a bit of art."

"It certainly does." Her voice itself sighed; he imagined that she was imagining stealing it all. It made him remember her more as he last saw her, miffed but plotting, skin slicked lightly with sweat and hair tussled but still, somehow, perfect.

She slid into the seat beside him, then took his coffee cup in one hand, sipped at it, and began pondering his crossword puzzle.

"Thirteen down is van Gogh. I'm very disappointed in you, Nathan, missing that one."

"I didn't miss it. I'm not that far yet."

"Sure."

"Can I have my coffee back?" Purposefully, she met his gaze and brought the coffee back up to her lips.

Then, the question forgotten, she went back to the crossword, still holding and sipping at his coffee. Nate sighed and looked back down at the paper. But he wasn't reading it anymore; now he was thinking about Sophie. Next to him was a thief, a con-artist (a rather impeccable one, he must admit). He was sure that she had stolen dozens of pieces of art, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth, if not more, and yet he was also quite sure that there was nothing tracing back to her. She wouldn't be caught. And he couldn't arrest her.

Having solved that particular moral dilemma of sitting next to a known thief, Nate moved on to his second one: sitting next to an incredibly attractive woman who had certainly stolen his attention. In Prague he had fallen in love with her beauty, with her wit and her elegance. He had enjoyed every moment of that night, until she turned out to be a thief. In Damascus he had been taken by her cunning. She had outwitted him, sort of, and he found that particularly sexy.

Except not, because, as he kept reminding himself in the five silent minutes that passed between the two of them, he was married. He had Maggie and Sam and a home in LA and a great life. And that's exactly why he planned on standing up, saying good-bye to Ms. Devereaux, and finding himself a pub to enjoy.

What he did instead was turn to her and ask, "Is this another game, Sophie?"

She smiled at him, sipped his coffee again, and replied, "Not really. I just thought that I'd say hello. And help you with your crossword. I like crosswords."

"That's very kind of you."

"You still haven't written in van Gogh. And I've figured out nine more."

And that is how Nate spent his afternoon on the third Sunday of June in 2001. Later Sophie brought him back to the coffee shop where she bought him another coffee, to make up for the one she drank most of, only for her to eventually drink most of his new one as well. She gave him the brief tour of London atop a double decker bus. They ate fish and chips while they rode because Nate insisted on being a tourist. When it grew late, Sophie paid for the cabbie to drop them off in front of Nate's hotel.

"It was a lovely day."

"It was. I had fun."

"Good."

As they stood there, Nate watched the sure confidence and bravado from earlier fade from Sophie's body. She couldn't quite look at him and she couldn't quite keep still. He thought she looked cute, but he doubted that was how she intended the night to end.

"Thank-you, Sophie."

She looked at him finally and her face softened. She stepped closer and rested her hands on his sides to support her as she rose up onto her toes. Her lips brushed his cheek, but very faintly. Her breath warmed his ear when she whispered, "You're welcome."

She moved away, smiled and tucked her hands into her pocket. "Goodnight, Nate."

"Goodnight."

He watched her walk away. Eventually she faded into crowds, just as she had trained herself to do. He shook himself and snapped his gaze away from the street. As he waited for the lift, he shoved his hands into his pockets and sighed. It was a good day, a great day, just like that night in Prague. It had been a good day until the lift doors opened and he reminded himself about his flight tomorrow, the one taking him home to his wife. He was married, he scolded himself. He was married and Sophie was a thief and that ended that. For a few months anyway.

You see, after returning home from London, Maggie and Nate hit what one might call "a rough patch". This being a "patch" of their marriage that was rubbed raw by Maggie's annoyance with Nate's job, by Nate's absence, by Nate's preoccupation with several unrelated thefts that he refused quite harshly to talk to her about, and to the fact that Nate had agreed to travel to Madrid three days before their son's third birthday. It was the last part that was particularly important because Sam's third birthday was in September of 2001, three months after Nate had spent a Sunday afternoon in London with Sophie.

The argument began like this, "Why didn't you tell him no?"

"I couldn't say no. Maggie, Robertson has the largest contract with IYS. The fact that they trust me to take this job means a lot, it could mean a lot for my future with the company. I can't- I can't not go."

"You're going to miss Sam's birthday. You know your son, the one you never see anymore. I'm surprised he still recognizes you."

"Hey! I love Sam and I hate that I'll be missing his birthday, but can't we celebrate when I get back? It'll only be a few days later."

"No, we can't, Nate, because his party is for Saturday. His friends are coming over on Saturday. So is the magician and the cake and your mother. Besides, that's not the point. The point is that we've talked about how much you've been working. We talked about how you were going to scale it back for a while and spend more time at home."

"I know, I know."

"And yet you haven't done this."

"No, I haven't, Maggie! I like my job. I enjoy what I do."

"You enjoy traipsing across Europe?"

"Of course I do. So do you! But I'm not just roaming aimlessly- I'm there on business."

"Right."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

The rest of the argument went in a similar manner. Building steam the farther away from Sam's birthday it got and growing in volume until, finally, Nate ended it. "My flight leaves soon. I need to pack."

In the end, Nate barely said goodbye to Maggie, but made a show of hugging and kissing Sam. He was gruff with the security guards and moody with the flight attendant. The long flight just gave him the chance to mope and stew. On top of it, Madrid was hot and humid when he finally got through customs. It took him a while to hail a taxi and then, of course, traffic sucked.

He didn't bother stopping at his hotel and instead headed straight to the museum. The curator offered him a small office out of the way. He left his suitcase in the office.

To continue the pattern of his day, nothing much got accomplished. There were no leads to follow- no prints, nothing on the video. He tried to sort through the crime, put the pieces together to give him somewhere to start, but he got nowhere. When he left for the night, he stopped only briefly at his hotel to check in and ditch his suitcase. He found a bar to spend the next few hours in.

Nate wasn't drunk- that's important to clarify. But he had drunken quite a lot, which made it difficult to remember exactly how to manoeuvre his hand properly enough to fit the card into the slot. Once he accomplished it, he congratulated himself silently and pushed the door open, stumbling very slightly as he stepped inside.

He stopped quite suddenly, sobering fractionally as he stood still in the centre of the room. Something was different. Not wrong, necessarily, but different. There was a scent lingering in the air. It was a very unique scent. Musky and seductive, fruity and playful, a bit too strong but also just right for the senses.

"Sophie?"

From the bathroom door he heard, "How did you know it was me?" He turned to see her standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She was smiling at him but he wasn't looking at her eyes or her face, he was taking her in. Her dress was light and dainty, perfect for the summer-like day outside. It covered very little- thin straps held it up, leaving her neck and shoulders and quite a lot of her chest exposed, while the hem ended only mid-way down her thigh. The material itself was purple with white flowers, but that's all he really noticed.

When he did look at her face, he noted mostly that her cheeks were lighter than he remembered and her lips redder. Her hair was pinned back. It looked cute. But he wasn't concentrating on that anymore than the dress's colour. No, he was paying attention to the way she was pouting her lips at him, to the way her eyes had darkened in response to him, to the way she was leaning seductively against the wooden frame. She was also barefoot, though he didn't know why he thought about that.

In three steps he had closed the distance between them and in one motion he had captured her lips with his. Being slightly but not actually drunk like he was and angry but no longer fuming, he forgot to be gentle. His lips were hungrily bearing down on hers and his right hand had curled around her neck, keeping her firmly against him. In the very back of his mind, he knew to give her a chance to stop him, but much of the rest of his brain had realized that she was keeping pace with him. Both of her hands had wrapped around his neck and she deepened the kiss with her tongue. She let herself be moved against the wall, which made it easier to press his body even closer to hers.

He didn't stop even when he needed to breathe, he just moved on to kissing her cheek and neck. As he moved from her neck to her shoulder, he forgot again to be gentle. Small bruises marked his trail downwards. Her hands tangled in his hair and scratched at his neck. She moaned in response despite the roughness.

His lips found hers again. His body pressed her tighter against the wall. His erection was hard against her stomach. She sighed into his mouth.

Their pace slowed. He was still kissing her, though sloppily, leaving time between kisses to breathe. Her hands were against his neck now, rubbing it lightly and playing with his soft curls. Her chest was heaving, pressing her breasts against him in irregular bouts. When he moved in to kiss her again, she tilted her face to the side; he kissed her cheek. Her hands rubbed down his back; his forehead rested against hers.

Her words came out in a frail whisper. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

She let that hang over them for a moment as she stood still pinned against the wall by his larger frame. There was a flutter of hot breath on her cheek. She could still feel him throbbing against her.

"Do you want to keep going?" She shouldn't have asked it. She wasn't going to, but standing there like that with him was simply driving her insane with need. She could feel that he wasn't getting any better himself. But to ask him was possibly embarrassing. She knew that he was going to say no, he was going to apologize for being drunk and angry about something and for taking that out on her. He was going to walk away and ask for enough privacy to compose himself. And then, once the two of them had calmed down, he was going to ask her why the hell she was in his hotel room. In her defence, sex was not the answer to that question.

"Yes, I want to." His voice was hoarse, even a bit forced, like that wasn't the answer he was going to give. It certainly wasn't the expected one. "But we're not going to."

"Ok."

"What are you doing here?"

When she imagined him asking her that, she imagined that she would still be leaning against the door frame. That her hair would still be perfectly put together and that she would be leering at him seductively. She imagined saying something relatively witty and she imagined that they would have some fun with the following conversation. She hadn't imagined that his chest would be pressed up against hers so tightly that she could feel his heart pounding, or that she would be able to hear him breathing. She didn't expect to be stroking his polo-clad back or tangling her fingers through his curls with her other hand.

"I heard you were here. I wanted to stop in and say hello."

"Did you steal the paintings?"

"Oh, my silly Nathan, I can't tell you that."

"Didn't think you'd admit to it. Hoped, though."

He moved, just enough to take away the warmth of his body and to compel her to slide her hands over his shoulders and onto his chest. His eyes seemed so sad; she didn't know what to do. She stroked his cheek, brushing some hair behind his ear. "What happened, Nate?"

She watched as an interesting conflict took place in his eyes. She could tell that he didn't want to say anything; he seemed content to remain in the dream of this moment. At the same time, she saw his trust in her; saw him moving his lips soundlessly. "My wife and I keep fighting," he said softly.

It would be a lie to say that those words didn't sting at Sophie's heart. She knew he had a wife- what a horrible grifter she would be if she hadn't spied that when they first met- but there was a dark piece of her that hoped his wife was gone by now.

"Fighting about what?"

"Work. I work too much. I don't spend enough time with her or with Sam or at home. She doesn't like how often I come to Europe and she doesn't understand why I like it so much or why I'm sent here so often. She keeps telling me to cut back."

"Why won't you? Travelling all the way from LA must be exhausting."

He didn't answer, just looked at her for a while. He spoke again only once he looked away. "Tomorrow is Sam's third birthday and I'm missing it. That's what we were arguing about." His eyes clouded over and he looked at her again. "I feel like a bad father."

"Nate." She held his face in her hands, stroked his jaw with her thumbs. There was nothing to say to him, nothing that she could think of. She hadn't even known that he was a father. Her eyes were soft and dark and focused solely on him. She rose up on her toes and kissed him softly, gently and with such purpose that his arms wrapped around her back and pulled her to him.

Sophie stayed for a few hours, keeping him company and drinking with him. When she got up to leave, he refused, telling her to stay the night in his room so she wouldn't be travelling alone so late. She was hesitant, but eventually agreed. She washed up and then laid in his bed, wearing a pair of his boxers and one of his dress shirts. He didn't bother to ask when she managed to steal those from his suitcase.

She fell asleep watching him pace around the room, still nursing a glass of rum. He spent the night alternating between watching her sleep and dusting the hair from her face and staring out the window. He honestly couldn't understand this relationship he had developed with this woman, this thief and liar and seductress. He couldn't explain the way he had felt an immediate bond with her in Prague or the ease with which she had earned his respect or how pure their friendship had seemed in London. He didn't understand how he had trusted her so much that night.

He hated himself for how much he had wanted her. If his mind had been clearer, he would never have kissed her, but he certainly would have thought about it, played out that entire scene, before dismissing her. He could blame it on the alcohol, but the reality was something completely different. He just hadn't figured out what reality was yet.

When Nate got home, he ate left over cake with Sam and presented the couple of gifts he picked up while in Madrid. Sammy seemed content to get more sugar and more paper and toys to play with. Maggie stood cross armed and stern in the corner.

Their "rough patch" softened over the next year. Nate purposely asked to handle more cases stateside. He brought less work home and left his weekends open to do things with Maggie and Sam. But Nate couldn't stop feeling like he was missing something.

/-/


	2. April 2002 to October 2002

It was now April of 2002, seven months since Madrid, and Nate was stepping out of Dr. Roger's office, the museum curator for the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Straight ahead, the director of the Egyptian exhibit was speaking with a tall, rather leggy brunette employee. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun and her eyes were covered by thick-rimmed black glasses. Her back was slouched and her shoes were rather plain. She held a clip board and a stack of folders closely against her chest. She nodded rather too deeply at what the director was saying. When she spoke, her voice was grating and American.

Nate watched the interaction silently, his arms crossed. The director finished with her and walked away. She turned to watch him go, then straightened and sighed. He wondered what was up her sleeve, what plan did she have that involved the Egyptian exhibit, what currently at the museum was her style.

That's when she turned and saw him. If she had been his three year old son, she might have stomped, but thankfully she was a mature woman. Instead she tilted her head to the side and glared at him in a way that said, 'What are you doing here?' He crooked a finger at her, gesturing for her to come over to him and then turned and walked into the museum curator's now empty office.

"Hello, Sophie. Or should I say," he squinted at her name badge, "Jenny Sinclair."

"What are you doing here? You're going to ruin everything."

"Oh, am I? And what exactly will I be ruining?" He knew that she wasn't going to answer him, at least not seriously, but he liked the way it irked her. He knew that she was honestly dying to tell him her con, to have someone able to appreciate the skill and difficulty of whatever she was doing.

She punched him in the shoulder and slouched down into the office chair. "I guess I'll just have to take some sick leave. Wait until you're gone."

"Don't worry so much, I'm only here for the day."

"Fine. Good." She stood. Her composure returned and she adjusted the glasses on her nose. "It was nice seeing you, Mr. Ford. I hope you have a good flight tonight."

"Oh I'm not flying out tonight."

"Oh?" He had a hard time keeping a straight face when she spoke in that voice.

"Tomorrow morning."

"Well, have a good flight in the morning. Enjoy your night." Behind her glasses, he saw her wink and even smile slightly, then she left him alone in the office.

That night, as he expected, she had found where he was staying. He could smell the lingering scent of musk and fruit just outside his door; he knew that she had been there not too long ago. As he fiddled with the key card, he tried to anticipate what she had planned:

Had she read his statement as an invitation to continue what had started in his last hotel room? Was she laying scantily clad on his bed, waiting for him?

Or had she taken the offer as intended, and was waiting for him, flipping through TV stations with pizza and beer, or something equivalent?

He opened the door slowly, taking in everything as it came into his field of view. His eye settled on the bed- no Sophie. The TV was off. The chairs by the window were empty. He stepped inside, breathing in the air. She had definitely been there. Maybe she had simply dropped off a note and left. It was possible.

He stripped his jacket off and tossed it in the direction of the chair. He thought about calling out to her, to check to see if she was really gone, but then he heard the water running. His eyes turned right to the bathroom door. As he grew closer it became more obvious that Sophie was running herself a bath. He considered knocking to make sure that she was either covered or at least willing to let him enter but he stopped before his knuckle touched the door. He reasoned that she had invaded his hotel room and was using his bath; he was allowed to walk in on her.

So he did. He wasn't disappointed in the least.

"Hello, Nate."

"Sophie." He held her eyes for as long as possible but temptation got the better of him. His eyes travelled down, exploring the white suds covering her neck. The water was quite frothy, but he could still make out the outline of her body beneath the foam. She was a beauty, all curves in the right places and right amounts, smooth skin and toned legs. He had half a mind to undress and join her.

He had a wife, he kept reminding himself. He had a wife.

"You're in my bathtub."

"Yes, I had a small mishap with some sand at work."

"Sand?"

"Don't ask."

"So you're getting _my_ tub all sandy?" She smiled at him and shrugged, stirring the soap suds. He knew that he should turn around and leave and wait for her to finish her bath, but he didn't. He stood in the doorway, just looking at her. "Why did you come here tonight?"

"You invited me."

"I didn't invite you."

"Well you told me that you'd be here tonight. Since you knew that I could get into your room, that's like an invitation."

"True... Why did you accept my invitation?"

"Why did you tell me you'd be here?"

"Don't answer my questions with questions."

She sighed and shifted forward so she was hugging her knees. The ends of her hair were wet and stuck to her shoulders. "I missed you." Nate nodded and smiled a little. "Did you miss me?"

"I did. Enjoy your bath. I'll go order us some food."

This time, when she stayed the night, she wore the fluffy blue robe she found in the bathroom. He was in boxers and an undershirt and laid next to her on the bed. One of the large hotel pillows was supporting his back against the wall. She had a tub of rocky road ice cream in her hands as they watched some show on TV.

He fell asleep with Sophie curled up against him, his chest her pillow. It was comfortable, more comforting than it should have been. He expected her to be gone when he woke up; it made him want to stay awake all night, holding her.

Sophie woke up first. Nate thought right, she had intended on leaving before he woke up. She hadn't meant to stay the night and she didn't mean to lead him by staying. But Sophie was groggy and warm when she woke up and she was enjoying the feel of the sun streaming through the window. She snuggled closer to him and rested her hand against his warm flesh- his shirt had ridden up in the middle of the night. Every breath reminded her of him; brought her back to the excitement of conning him, the tickle of pleasure surprising him gave her. Being with him was like stealing a painting- exciting and terrifying and an adrenaline rush. Just like she was in love with the game of conning and stealing, she was in love with the game that was playing Nate.

She kissed his jaw, because it was there and she wanted to. Then she kissed his neck, for the same reason. She started to smile and shifted against him, feeling playful. She kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, Nate. How did you sleep?"

"I was having a lovely dream, until someone started distracting me."

"Oh I'm very sorry. You can go back to sleep now, I'll leave you alone." She rolled away from him, moving to get out from under the blankets. He grabbed her around the waist and she shrieked as he pulled her back to him. "Nate, let go!"

"Why?"

She turned her head, hoping to spy the look on his face but all she could see were his lips. Very inviting lips.

"Nate?"

"Yes?"

"I should leave."

"Why?"

"Because you have a plane to catch and I have work to go to."

"Right."

"So you should let me go now." Slowly, he released her and gave her the freedom to turn around and face him. There were those lips again. "You confuse me, just so you know."

"Yeah, I confuse me too."

"Ok, well you work on that. Let me know how that turns out."

She left him there, in a bed that smelt of her, with his heart completely exposed. He laid with his legs splayed and his arms over his head and the thin sheets they had slept in tangled around his hips so that his feet were exposed. He needed to get up and pack his things. He needed to shower and get dressed and clean up the empty food containers from last night. But he couldn't stop thinking.

Waiting back at home for him was his lovely wife, who he adored very much, and his three and a half year old son, who he wished he spent more time with. He had a nice life back home. Safe, warm. A nice house, a beautiful wife, a little boy who was going to grow up to be someone. A good job; a job that he was good at. It was a comfortable life, not without its hardships and uncertainties, but a good, solid life. The kind one's parents hope for; the kind you're happy to have once you've reached thirty.

Nathan Ford didn't like cheaters, he didn't condone affairs, and he wasn't the greatest believer in divorce. And that's why he tried so hard to fight back the urge to roll over and bury his nose into her pillow. That's why, when he finally did pick up the room, he struggled not to remember how he had known exactly what to order for her or how lovely her laugh was or how she had swatted his spoon away when he tried to steal some of her ice cream, even though she eventually fed him some off of her own spoon. He tried not to do any of that, but he failed quite miserably.

Back at home, he kissed his wife and played with his son and went back to work, like every other person in the world. Only during the last moments of consciousness would he think about her.

Back in Europe, Sophie Devereaux was making her way through France, setting up for her next great con. Well, next con anyway. It won't be so great, but that's for a bit later.

Anyway, during October of 2002, Sophie was in Paris. The plan: Sophie was going to become well acquainted with a very rich, very prominent French businessman who happened to have nearly thirty paintings- thirty very expensive, very lovely, and very unsecured paintings- throughout his mansion. Step two, move all of the paintings into one location where she could cut them out. Step three, perform a heartbreaking walk away.

Step one had gone quite well, she thought. They met at a quaint little coffee shop after Sophie had "accidentally" run into him, causing him to spill his coffee all over her. He took her to dinner to apologize and she wormed her way into his mansion for a quick look around. A second dinner, more flirting. A third dinner and a... sleep over.

In this con, she was playing the role of an art expert, Sophie Devereaux. She decided to be French- why not really? Upon their fourth date- which was simply coffee and dessert in the afternoon at Jacques's place- she convinced him that his art was in desperate need of care.

"What do you mean, they need care?"

"They are filthy, of course. You cannot simply dust them from time to time; you must very carefully wash them, at least once a year. It's very important. These are all very old paintings; they need this sort of attention in order to last."

Jacques looked back at the landscape they were talking about, in French of course, and Sophie watched him carefully, looking for signs that she should push or stand back. He seemed to be considering her words, so she added her final hook. "Of course, I could clean them for you. I would love to."

"I could not ask you to do such a thing."

"You are not; I am offering. I enjoy getting the chance to clean artwork- you have a chance to look very closely at it. At every perfect detail."

Jacques smiled and nodded. "Ok. That is settled then, I think. What sort of arrangements will you need?"

"Well, we'll have to move all of the paintings to a private room- a study or lounge perhaps that is not used. I can bring the cleaning supplies tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? No, that will not work. Friday."

"Friday?" Friday was not tomorrow; tomorrow was Thursday. "Ok... But why not tomorrow?"

"Did I not tell you? I am throwing a dinner party. A small one for a number of friends of mine. Certainly I must have told you. I would like you to come as my date, of course."

"Of course! Yes. I need to go then- you have hardly given me enough time to find the right dress!"

Sophie Devereaux liked parties because parties were like cons, cons with food and drinks. She liked picking out the perfect dress. She liked watching in the mirror as it fell slowly down her body, perfectly fitting around her curves. She loved watching as her fingers work her hair into curls and place it exactly how she wanted. She loved smoothing her features with a soft touch of make-up and thickening her lips with the perfect shade of lipstick.

Even better than creating an outward appearance to match her assumed personality, was the game. Dinner parties are games, nothing different really. A proper entrance is always required. Just enough to get attention from whom you want paying attention to you, but not too much to draw in people you don't want noticing you. When a party doesn't have a specific mark, there are still some people you want to interact with and some who you don't. Within the first few minutes, Sophie always knew who she wanted to talk to for the night. Then came the fun, the game, the pointless talk that lead to good stories or good sex.

The butler took her coat. She waved and smiled at a few nameless people. She grabbed herself a flute of champagne. Her eyes scanned over the crowd, reading people, trying to recall as many names as possible.

And then he ruined all of her fun. "Hello, Sophie."

"Hello, Nathan."

"What are you doing here?"

"It's a party, Nate. I happen to like parties." He chuckled at that and nodded, but she knew that he wasn't convinced. She could work around this, play with Nate and still accomplish her con. "The question is, what are you doing here? You, unlike me, do not like parties."

"I was in the neighbourhood and got invited. Hard to say no to free French food."

Sophie snorted at him. "Is that so?"

She felt a hand slide around her hips and a warm body move up against hers. "Sophie," the accent was French and the voice deep and crisp. She looked up to find Jacques smiling at her. "I did not know that you and Mr. Ford were acquainted."

"Of course." Her voice slipped into a French accent. Nate smirked, cocking an eyebrow that only Sophie noticed. "Mr. Ford works very closely within the art world. We have run into each other many times. How do you know him?"

"IYS insures many of Mr. Rousseau's company's patens. We've run into each other."

"Oh, of course they do." Jacques's sharp look back at her made her realize that her accent had faltered slightly, not to mention that her outburst was rather ridiculous. "They are the best, are they not?"

Jacques's hand tightened around her hip and he leaned forward to peak her on the cheek. "There are some people here who I would like you to meet. Would you excuse us, Mr. Ford?"

"Of course."

Sophie looked back over her shoulder as she walked away. Nate just watched them go. Jacques's hand was rather low on her back and Sophie leaned into him. He was her mark, the man she had already seduced and would, very likely, soon con.

If asked, Nate would have claimed that he immediately began working out Sophie's con because that was his job. Because, if he could catch her in the act of stealing from Jacques, maybe he could pin some of her other crimes on her. The truth was that his mind needed a distraction. Without one, he would never have been able to suppress the thoughts of what Sophie and Jacques had done already and what they might have planned for the night. The thought of Jacques kissing her neck, undressing her, running his hands down her naked back-

Yeah, that was what he needed a distraction from.

He counted seventeen paintings on the ground floor alone. All with limited security, all decently expensive. How she was going to get to them, he wasn't sure yet.

He caught up to her again later, after she was finally free of Jacques. "So how are you going to do it?"

"I do not know what it is that you are talking about, Mr. Ford." He wondered why she was continuing to use her French accent with him, but found that it was endearing and he didn't mind it so much.

"You're here to steal Jacques's paintings. But how are you going to do it? Ask him for them? Wait until he falls asleep and take them from him?"

"Oh, Nathan, that's so simple of you. I know that you can do better."

"If I figure it out, Sophie, I'll have to stop you. If I catch you, don't think I'll let you go."

"Let me go? Oh, Nate." She leaned in close to him. Her accent dropped; her voice was nearly a whisper in his ear. "I would expect nothing less from you."

When he tried to get into his hotel room, he discovered that his wallet had fallen out of his pocket, hopefully back at Rousseau's house. He was slightly buzzed and too tired to care until the morning.

The butler started a search upon Jacques's request and the Frenchman led Nate into the foyer of his home.

"I am sorry about the misfortune, Mr. Ford. Hopefully it simply fell out of your pocket during dinner last night."

"That's what I'm hoping."

Something was wrong. It was the first thing he noticed upon entering the foyer. "Mr. Rousseau, where are all of your paintings?"

"They are being cleaned at the moment. You remember our friend Sophie? She is an art expert and offered to clean them for me."

"Sophie's cleaning your art?"

"Yes. She is upstairs."

He took off, running up the stairs, determined to find her before she got away from him. The door slammed against the wall and he saw her standing over a frame, cutting the painting free. She was wearing a plaid coat- there's no reason for him to have noticed that. Empty frames were leaning up against the fireplace and several waiting to be cut free were on top of the mantel. These weren't important details, but he noticed them nonetheless.

"Freeze!"

He saw her hand move for the gun on the mantel. He grounded his feet and held his gun tighter. He heard the shot. Pain spread throughout his shoulder. The response was pure reflex: his finger tightened in defence, the gun fired. Considering that he had just been shot and he hadn't truly intended on shooting her, his aim was completely off and the bullet merely grazed her left arm. In the following seconds a lot managed to happen in Nate's mind.

First was surprise. He couldn't believe that she had actually shot him! She shot him. But quickly following his surprise, and even a tinge of anger, he was tempered by the logic that said of course Sophie would shoot him. She knew that he would have to arrest her and bring her to the authorities- the French authorities. Sophie would rather die than be caught.

Second was, of course, severe pain. Blinding pain. Pain that was making his vision turn white around the edges.

Third was fear. He had shot her! He had never expected to fire his weapon but now he was limply still aiming it at Sophie. She was going to hate him for a while- not forever though thankfully. This thought was quickly followed by the one that had noticed her face. Shock rounded her lips and anger blushed her cheeks. She had the right to be angry- she had a right to shoot at him to defend herself, but he didn't have the same. He promised Sophie that he would try to catch her at all costs, but he never intended on shooting her.

"You wanker!"

He straightened. He wanted to laugh. If she was yelling at him, then she wasn't as mad at him as he thought. She'd get over it.

"That bloody hurt! Was that necessary?"

"You're hurt? That barely scratched your arm. You shot me in the shoulder."

"You'll survive."

Feet stormed up the stairs, probably in response to the gun shots. It was Jacques Rousseau, coming to check on them. The noise, and pain, distracted Nate and he looked away from Sophie. He dropped his gun to his side and put as much pressure on his shoulder as possible.

"What the hell has happened?"

"I'm afraid, Mr. Rousseau, that Sophie has been lying to you. She came here to steal your paintings."

"And has succeeded."

"What?" He looked. She was gone. In the short time he had tried to catch his breath, she had slipped away from him. The breeze shook the curtains. Nate groaned and dropped down to his knee. In the distance, he heard voices in French yelling but he wasn't sure what they were saying exactly. It was Jacques yelling for someone to call an ambulance, which he would figure out later as he laid in a French hospital bed, bandaged and slightly high on morphine. For that reason, he's never been certain if the following conversation ever happened.

A nurse walked in and he ignored her for a moment as she started checking his bandages and IV.

"Are you ok, Nate?"

It was Sophie, sneaking in as a nurse.

"I'll be fine. I'm enjoying the morphine, so thanks for that."

"Sure. Anytime."

"Really, actually, if you could never shoot me again, that would be lovely."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Did you get your arm looked at?"

"It hardly scratched me. I'm fine."

"Ok."

The nurse- potentially Sophie- left after that. He spent that night and the following day in the hospital. His wallet somehow made it back into his jacket pocket during that time- it was the only reason why he knew the nurse had been Sophie.

/-/


	3. Winter 2002 to Summer 2004

When Nate got back home from Paris, his shoulder was constantly sore and his arm was in a sling. His wife doted over him. She asked him only once what had happened and he brushed it off as nothing. She gave the impression that she didn't believe him. Her suspicious looks just made him want to work more, which just made her argue with him more.

This wasn't exactly a second rough patch for them, but it was something of an awkward patch. Besides spending every Sunday with Sam, pretty much all Nate ever did was work. He was following some leads, a number of leads, all of which he knew would lead him to one thief in particular- Sophie Devereaux.

In the winter of 2002, he chased her through Germany and into Luxembourg. He never properly saw her, he just knew where to go. Some of it through investigation, some through intuition, and quite a bit from her letters.

It was something new she had started after that day in Paris. She wrote him letters with clues, hinting at where she was or where she was going. She made comments about things she was considering stealing. She played him, mostly, sometimes leading him to her and sometimes distracting him just long enough to get away. He kept every letter that she wrote him. Even the first few, before he properly knew her.

It was because of these letters that he managed to out-con her and prevented her from stealing a Monet in Florence. That was in the summer of 2003. It saved his company twenty-two million dollars and it cost him about a month's worth of letters. She was rather cross with him.

Sometimes she just wrote to him. She told him about her days, the normal ones. She told him about places she honestly loved visiting for no reason other than she liked the view or the coffee or the desserts or the shopping. He learned most of what he knows about Sophie Devereux through those letters. He learned that she liked her coffee French and her espresso Italian and would only drink British tea. He learned that violets were her favourite flowers, but that she quite liked daisies as well. And, of course, red roses were always acceptable. He sent her a mixture of the three after that letter.

He caught glimpses of her- the hint of her scent or the trail of her dress- as he chased her. He sensed her lingering presence in his hotel rooms, but he never found her in his room again, only the letters she had left.

The next time he saw her in person was May of 2004. This time his plane landed him in Tuscany, central Italy. He liked Italy; it was one of his favourite countries, potentially because Italian was one of the few languages he actually spoke fluently.

But, as always, Nate wasn't in Tuscany for the local food and language practice, he was there to visit__Uffizi where an extremely famous, IYS secured painting had recently been stolen. He spent the day interviewing, watching tape footage, and generally doing what Nate does best- solving the crime.

When he finally took a break, it was five in the afternoon. He walked outside. His gait was quick but his destination completely unknown, which left him standing outside the museum entrance looking confused because he was frustrated, and frustrated because he was confused, which, overall, led to the appearance of a grumpy insurance agent standing with his hands shoved in his pockets and his slicked back hair blowing in the breeze. It also gave Sophie Devereaux the opportunity to sneak up behind him.

"I didn't do it. I promise."

His gruff exterior relaxed at the sound of Sophie's voice. He even smiled and said, "I know."

He watched as she slowly walked around him and came into his view. She looked lovely, as she always did. She wore a sundress and a rather large hat and much too expensive of shoes and looked more than ready for the summer to officially arrive.

"How do you know that?"

He took the coffee cup from her hands and drank from it. "You have a signature." She sent him a suspicious glare. He merely shrugged in response. She took the coffee back from him.

"So, long, gruelling investigation then?"

"No, I know who did it. I just don't know how to prove it yet." At this point, they had been walking for a minute or two. He grew quiet and Sophie looked over at him. His eyes had glazed over; she knew that he was thinking, plotting really. Suddenly his eyes brightened and she smiled in response. "Sophie, you wouldn't happen to be free over the next few days, would you?"

"Nathan, what are you planning?" He just smirked at her and didn't answer. "So who stole it?"

"The chief of security."

Sophie blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yep."

"How do you know that?"

"This is the third painting stolen in the past year, the first of which was stolen two months after the chief of security started working here. The theft always happens during a random testing of the security cameras-"

"Which only the chief of security would know about."

Nate nodded. "The thefts were quick and efficient. No video, no guards in the area, no evidence of the painting leaving the museum-"

"He stores it inside, where he can get to it later and get it out easily."

"That's what I'm thinking."

"So how do you prove that? That's all circumstantial."

"Exactly. That's why I need your help to catch him in the act of selling it."

For a moment, she thought he had gone completely mad. He was asking her to con the chief of security of the Uffizi Galleryin order to prove that he had stolen a painting and, presumably, he wanted her to steal it back. She sipped at the coffee for a moment, considering her options, and then said, "That's assuming a lot of things. First that you're right-"

"Which I am."

"Second that he hasn't sold it yet-"

"Security has been too high since the theft. He won't be able to get it out for at least a few more days."

Sophie took another sip of coffee. "All right, all that I can accept, but how exactly am I going to convince him to sell to me?" It was certainly a valid question, considering that she had no idea who he generally sold to, if he was going to sell it, and whether or not he had already made contact with someone. But Nate was already plotting ahead of that thought process.

The plan was this: Sophie would make contact with the chief of security outside of the museum. She would try the no-talking technique, one that she found useful mostly for practice, but occasionally it worked well. In this case, the hope was that the chief of security would give the plan for selling the painting away within the first few moments of contact, allowing Sophie to play off of what he said and establish a place, time, and price. She would then meet him, wired to record what happened, pay him, and then leave with the painting. The recording would be enough to IYS, at least, and Sophie had promised to return the painting to Nate.

The execution went like this: Sophie made contact with the chief of security. He seemed startled and confused by her presence, but did in fact admit several things. First was that he was being blackmailed into stealing the paintings. Second that he believed she worked for the buyers. Third that he didn't actually know who was buying the paintings from him. This, Sophie found incredibly easy to work. They made plans to meet in two days at an abandoned warehouse. The price was eight hundred thousand. Sophie reluctantly agreed to use her personal funds to make the transaction.

Surprisingly, everything went incredibly well for the pair. Sophie walked out with plenty of incriminating recordings, one stolen painting, and a couple hundred thousand poorer (the last part made Sophie believe that this plan had actually failed quite miserably).

"You're going to pay me back for this, right?" Nate ignored the question in favour of checking the painting and loading it into the back of his car. "Nathan?"

He looked over at her. She had her arms crossed over her chest; her face was tensed into a pout. "Isn't it enough that you spent that money doing a good deed?"

"No." Her pout deepened as she moved closer to him. She ran a hand down his arm and smiled. "But don't worry; I'll think of something you can do to repay me. See you later, Nate."

He sighed as she walked away. He looked back to the painting in his car and slammed the door closed. He didn't want to look back at her but her voice drew his attention, "Oh, and Nate?"

"Yes?"

"This was fun. I liked the two of us working together."

Three months passed rather uneventfully. They continued their chase throughout Europe, though Nate noticed Sophie seemed to be losing steam. Nate focused more on other work and less on Sophie, for a change. Until:

'I need a favour. Paris.'

That's all her last letter had said. He'd been in Turkey, just finishing up a case. His plane back home was leaving in a few hours. He'd just stopped in the room to wash up and grab his things, but the note had distracted him.

He changed his flight while on the way to the airport and landed in Paris extremely late that night. She was waiting for him outside the airport; it scared him a little how easy finding him was for her.

"Hello, Nate."

"Sophie, you summoned me?"

"Yes, I need your help…" Her voice trailed off. Her hands wrapped around his elbow and she held herself to his side. She began leading him towards her car. The way she smiled up at him unnerved him a little. "For a con."

"You want me to help you steal something?"

"You owe me eight hundred thousand dollars- it's only fair."

"I'm not a thief."

"You won't be stealing. If everything goes well, they'll just hand it over."

"Still theft."

"Think of it how you like, you're still obligated to help me."

He stood next to her car, refusing at first to put his luggage inside the trunk, or even look up at her. Many thoughts were running through his mind at the moment and they went something like this: _I'm not a thief; I'm not going to help her commit a crime. Even if I don't physically do the act myself, I'm still an accomplice. I'm still allowing it to happen. Yes, but isn't that what I'm doing every time I let her go? How many times could I have turned her in? Arrested her? How many paintings and artefacts would still be in museums and not on the black market? How much jewellery and state money could have been protected if I had just done my job? Is just being friends with a thief some sort of sin? Sin by association? It's not like I'm the perfect guy anyway. Just look at how I handle some of these people. I let criminals go all of the time. As long as it can be justified. So what exactly does that make me?_

He looked up at her. "What exactly does this con entail?"

"Get in and I'll tell you."

The object of the con was this: A wealthy business man would be in Paris for three days hosting a private auction. The auction was being held at the Louvre Hotel.

The plan: Sophie and Nate would arrive at the Louvre Hotel, pretending to be newlyweds and, through clever grifting, get themselves an invite to the auction.

"We're on our honeymoon. You're American, of course- honestly I've heard your attempt at certain accents and-"

"Yeah, yeah. American works for me. You can do something other than that high squeaky one right?"

She glared at him. "Maybe not. Maybe you're stuck with that one. Besides, for this con, I have to be British."

After getting an invitation, they would, of course, have the opportunity to view all of the items. There was one item, in particular, that Sophie had her eye on- a diamond necklace, British made and hundreds of years old. Sophie, upon inspecting this necklace, would announce that the necklace was a family heirloom, stolen from her grandmother fifty years prior.

"What if the owners had it for more than fifty years? Or knows who had it then?"

"It was stolen fifty years ago, from Duchess Mildred Grant. I'll be playing her granddaughter, Roslyn."

After convincing the necessary people that the necklace rightfully belonged to her family, Sophie would easily walk out of the auction with the necklace and head back to Britain victorious.

"You know, this plan doesn't really require us to be married. Actually it doesn't even really need two people. Why am I-?"

"Who's planning this con, Nate? You had your con. This is mine."

Despite Nate's confusion and his distinct lack of usefulness in this con, he still agreed to go along with it and help her "reclaim" her lost family heirloom.

Once again, this is not a crime novel and the exact details of the con are not really all that important. However, there were a few amusing, interesting, or otherwise relevant moments that demand a closer look.

Before daring to make their foray into the public scene of their con, they first got prepared at a smaller hotel on the outer edge of the city. It was in that little hotel room that Nate stood, fully dressed, packed, and ready to go, waiting for Sophie. She was, as he expected, still in the bathroom.

"How do I look?"

Fabulous, was his first thought. Second, he thought, that she looked exactly like she was ready for her honeymoon to get started.

"Gorgeous. We ready?"

"Almost." After years of practice, he muffled his groan. "Just need the rings."

"Rings?"

"We're married, remember. We need rings."

She pulled from her purse two rings- one a golden band with a rather extravagant diamond that Nate thought rather unnecessary and the other a simple, thin gold wedding band. Nate took them, for a moment confused, before Sophie extended her left hand to him. "Go on." He tried to chuckle and roll his eyes and make it look like he thought this was just another of her silly little antics, but that wasn't true. In fact, he quite enjoyed the feel of slipping an engagement ring onto her slender finger. He tried to imagine as he did it where their characters were when he proposed, what he said and did, how she reacted. The whole scene played out effortlessly, happily, in his mind's eye. The wedding band followed next and again he saw the church and the dress, he heard the priest's speech and saw the smile on Sophie's face just before he stepped in to kiss her. When the rings were in place and he looked up at her, she smiled and then stroked his cheek. "Come on. We're going to be late."

Their characters' hotel was only the most expensive in Paris. A five-star paradise and the perfect place for "two rich newlyweds" to consummate the marriage. Of course, there would be no consummating, just some conning.

Despite that, Sophie still wanted to have her fun. And that's why, once they reached the door of the most extravagant honeymoon suite Nate had ever laid eyes on, Sophie just stood pouting and with her arms crossed over her chest.

"What?"

"You're supposed to carry me over the threshold."

"That's for your house, isn't it?"

She sighed and crossed her arms tighter. "This is likely the closest thing to a real honeymoon that I will ever have. Indulge me."

He stepped back into the hallway and dipped his chin so he could look her in the eyes. "Don't say that. I'm sure you'll find someone."

Her smile was sad as she said, "I'm not worried about that." She rested her hand over his heart and watched as she ran it down his stomach. "I'm a thief and a liar. I'm not exactly the marrying type," she looked up at him, "Am I, Nate?"

After this, your imagination can fill in the blanks. Sophie and Nate's plan did what it always does- worked for a time, failed, and then was reshuffled and altered before, ultimately, succeeding. Strangely, being newlyweds was the easiest part of the entire act.

As Nate collected his things from the trunk of her car, Sophie leaned against the car door and watched him. "You'd make a good thief, you know." She noticed the way his movements stuttered and his muscles tensed. He didn't say anything though. He straightened and adjusted his duffle over his shoulder. Sophie moved until she stood right in front of him. Her hand stroked the length of his arm; her eyes were soft as she looked up at him. They might have looked, to the average passerby, like lovers being separated. "We'd make a great team, Nate."

Yes, they certainly would, was Nate's exact thought to her statement. He didn't say that to her. Actually he said very little before walking away and catching a flight home.

In a strange sense, this, too, was exactly what Maggie was thinking, though not exactly. Maggie knew nothing of Sophie specifically and she certainly knew nothing of the two cons she and Nate had pulled together. What Maggie did know, however, was that Nate spent an exorbitant amount of time in Europe. She knew that he was largely focused on one person in particular, considering how much this criminal was plaguing IYS. She always knew that Nate was much too obsessed with this person, though she was rather clueless as to why.

What Maggie did in response to this knowledge was to give Nate- not for the first time, or second, or even third, but actually fifth time- an ultimatum: he could either return to working primarily on the west coast, which would allow him to spend more time with her and Sam, or he could leave. To this, Nate objected quite profusely. He reminded her about how it was his job, how she had never had a problem with his travelling before- which reminded him that it had been a constant battle since Sam was born. He protested that he still loved her and still managed to spend time with Sam despite his travelling schedule. She retorted to that by quoting exactly how many days he had been home in the past six months (she stated about two months total but in reality it was seventy-three days out of nearly one hundred and eighty) and quite bluntly reminded him of the Paris incident. (Maggie, of course, did not realize when she said "Paris incident" that Nate immediately thought she knew he had committed a crime. Of course since she knew nothing about Sophie, she was referring to the fact that he went to Paris instead of coming home and didn't bother to call her.)

At the end of all of this arguing, nothing was exactly decided. Nate left the next day for work with little idea of where his life was about to head. Specifically, he was about to head to Dublin, after being asked to by his boss. Had he been thinking rationally- which, in his defence, he had been up until the point when given the details of the case- he would have immediately declined and requested to stay in California until things calmed down. What happened instead was that he accepted the case, was handed a plane ticket for that night, and called Maggie while on his way home to pack.

If you recall, Sophie had a habit of writing Nate letters which she snuck into his hotel rooms throughout Europe, Asia, and the east coast of North America. Mostly they taunted him with clues, but they were also personal and friendly. Nate, on the other hand, did not write Sophie letters. He had thought about doing so in response to Sophie's. He had even started writing a few now and then, but he never knew exactly what to say. He wasn't even sure how to get them to her. In short, Nate only wrote Sophie once and this is what it said:

'_Dear Sophie,_

_I'm in Dublin right now. Sitting in the corner both at a pub, specifically. _

_Maggie just called.'_

At this point, it's fair to tell you that Nate stopped writing. It took thirty minutes and a pint of Guinness before he started again.

'_She's kicked me out. Said she packed up my stuff and will send it wherever I'd like as soon as I know where that is. She very cleverly offered somewhere in Europe. Subtle hint, eh? _

_Yeah, I've been in Europe for almost three straight weeks now, following you. You know that. _

_Things haven't been going well between Maggie and me. A lot of it is focused around work. I work too much, I leave too much, I don't pay attention to her. We never... I don't know. _

_It's confusing, Soph. I love Maggie. I love our life together. But ever since I met you-'_

He stopped again and took a shot of whiskey.

'_Ever since I met you, something's felt wrong. When I went home, it was like it was hard to focus. I was there, I was happy, but I was always being distracted. I looked forward to hearing about paintings being stolen somewhere, anywhere, in Europe. I looked forward to those agonizingly long flights. _

_I don't know what I'm saying, Sophie. I have no idea what I want. I just wanted to let you know that, at this moment, I'm not exactly married anymore. She didn't mention divorce, not in so many words, but it feels like it's coming to that. _

_You know the strange part? I almost don't mind. There was a time- no, for a long time, I couldn't imagine ever divorcing her. I couldn't imagine my life without Maggie. I could hardly even condone divorce in general. But right now, right this second, I don't have the energy to care. I'm not interested exactly in trying to fix things. _

_Does that make me a horrible person? Probably. It just feels like our life together has run its course and now it's best to just let it fade away. Become what it's going to become. _

He had another Guinness and watched the people walk by the windows. He watched the trees blowing in the wind. The window shuttered and he pulled his jacket around him more tightly.

'_This note isn't a promise, just to put that out there. I suppose it's an invitation. I'll be in Boston in a couple of days. I figure that's a good place to stay, for now any way. I'm sure you'll be able to find me._

_-Nate'_

He had been expecting another letter from her, so he left his out the following morning. When he returned that night, it was gone.

Sophie didn't read the letter when she first saw it. She didn't even read it that night when she made it back to her own hotel room. She stared at it from across the room. She paced in front of it. She tore carefully at the envelope's edges but never made a real attempt to open it. She didn't even open it the next morning.

Nate never wrote her letters. She was ok with that, because that wasn't the point. To Sophie, the letters were part of the game, part of the seduction. She strung him along, leading him where she wanted, when she wanted, because it was fun. It also wasn't his place to write them because he was the good guy. He was supposed to be hooked, but not tempted; in love with her, but not interested in her. That was the game they had set up. Her job was to catch his attention; his reaction was to come too close. Then she ran and he chased. It was how their professional life worked too- she liked the symmetry.

That was why a letter from Nate meant something. She didn't know what that something was, but it was something. She had a theory that it was either the mushiest love letter she would ever lay eyes on, or the most concise "dear John" letter.

When it turned out to be neither of those, she had no idea what to feel. It was both the greatest and worst news he could ever have scribbled onto a sheet of paper.

You see, Sophie loved their game. She wasn't the commitment type, the settle down with someone type- she was thief and a grifter and she was damn good at it. As much as she cared for and yes even loved Nate Ford, she never expected to be with him. She wasn't the right woman for him- Maggie was. Besides, a thief and a white knight just aren't compatible.

And yet, no matter how much she rationalized, her heart always circled back to the same conclusion: she loved him. She fell in love with him in London, their first time together there. If it weren't true, she would never have strung him along for so long. She would never have left so many hints or let him get as close as he always did. She would have disappeared for a while. But she didn't want to disappear and she didn't want him to back off. She wanted him to be that close, to be just one step behind her or one step to the side of her. Actually, she just wanted him, period.

And that was the problem with his letter. As long as there was a Maggie, there was a barrier. There was reason to pull him so close to her and then push him away. She could live with the way she broke her own heart time after time, because she knew that there was a wife and son waiting at home. It made the game more interesting. Without a Maggie, there was no barrier; there was nothing to stop her from taking what she wanted. She could steal him as simply as she stole anything else and that changed everything.

Sophie wasn't going to go to Boston. She was going to stay safely away from Nate in London. She was going to take a few months off and leave him alone. She was going to let Nate work things out with Maggie, move back to California, and wait for him to start chasing her again. She was going to do that, which is why she never quite figured out how she ended up in Boston standing outside of his apartment building.

He let her in without a word and she untied the belt fastening her coat. She shrugged the coat from her shoulders; she felt him help her pull it off. At first, she couldn't bring herself to look at him. She had no idea what to say to him, no idea what she expected to get out of being there. Instead she allowed the apartment distract her.

It wasn't exactly what she would have pegged for his style, but it came very close. A dark leather couch wrapped around the corner, a couple of blue pillows were stuffed into the sides. Behind it, the wall was taken up mostly by windows. Three frames on the right side and two on the left. Only half of them had their curtains twisted closed. There was a coffee table, stained dark and partially made of glass, that stood in front of the couch. Empty glasses- some coffee mugs and some shot glasses- had long since stained the table with sweat. He had a few books tossed on top of there, but she couldn't read the titles. A lamp stood near the arm of the couch; a dark-stained cabinet housed his TV. A recliner was in the other corner and a neglected plant was invading its arm rest.

"Would you like something to drink?"

His voice called attention to the left side of the apartment. In front of here was a small, square table. Four chairs were set around it. It stood on top of bare wood. Slightly more to the left, there were two steps leading to the kitchen area. A counter created a pseudo-wall between the kitchen and dining room. The kitchen was decently sized with plenty of room for a sink and counter space, a fridge and oven, some overhead lights, and plenty of cabinets to store food. Nate was standing up in the kitchen, gesturing towards her with a bottle of bourbon.

"Sure."

She watched him as he poured two glasses. She was accustomed to seeing him wearing well-tailored suits. She liked the way they suited him, but only when he wore them casually- sans tie, with the neck opened and the trousers in need of ironing. Even so, she preferred to see Nate in something like what he had on now. He wore a black button-down shirt, unbuttoned at the wrist and rolled up to his elbow. He left the first few buttons undone, letting her see his white t-shirt underneath. His jeans were washed dark and fitted perfectly, if slightly too long, which caused him to step on them with his bare heel as he walked over to her.

He offered her a cup in his left hand. She didn't see it until she reached out to take it from him. There, clasped around his ring finger, was his wedding band, still shining in the light like there was hope for it. For a moment, Sophie was fixated by it. This little thing that had torn her heart out, barred her from exactly what she wanted, was her greatest ally. The twisted logic of that truth sometimes sent her head spinning, but it was true- his wedding ring let her play and tease him all she liked, it let her fall for him, but it also protected her. She couldn't have him, which was good because she wasn't entirely sure that she wanted to have him. Well, she wanted to have him but she wasn't really sure if she wanted to keep him. Well, she wanted to keep him, she just wasn't sure that she was capable of such a thing. Commitment to Sophie was like stealing a painting and then just hanging it up in your bedroom- rather anticlimactic, pathetically dangerous, and left you, simply, with a painting. So yes, Sophie had shown up at Nate's apartment expecting to see that wedding band gone, expecting all barriers to drop, and then... well she wasn't sure what came next, but something, she imagined, was expected to follow.

It took her a moment to control the rush of emotions that seeing his wedding ring had brought to the surface, but finally she accepted the drink from his outstretched hand. He seemed embarrassed when she looked up at him and she knew immediately that he had caught her looking. She wanted to apologize, or comment at least, but he suddenly seemed quite fixated with it himself. His bourbon forgotten on the table, he started playing with the cold metal, twisting it around his finger, pulling it up over his knuckle and then back down. "Yeah I haven't really known what to do with it." He looked up at her and shrugged before looking back at it. This time when the ring moved over his knuckle, he pulled it all the way off.

Her hand was warm as it slid over his. Her thumb ran down along his and stopped once it made contact with his wedding band. She held his eye for every breath and carefully took the ring from him. She reached around him and gently set the ring on the table, not far from his glass. Her eyes didn't waver from his. She took his hand in hers and tugged him forward, towards her and away from the table. He stepped closer, following her. His right hand reached behind him and grabbed his glass before she brought him out to his living room.

"Let's forget," she started as he settled onto the sofa next to her, "just for tonight, about Maggie. I came to talk about us."

"You just came to talk?" There was an attempt at sarcasm in his voice, but, without the gleam in his eyes, it was merely a shadow of their usual banter.

She smiled softly at him. "I don't know yet. A lot depends on what happens in the next few minutes."

"No pressure."

"None at all." She leaned forward and squeezed his hand. "Really, Nate, there isn't any pressure. I'm not here for anything specific. I'm just here."

For a long time, they talked about nothing. Sophie told him about the crappy weather England had been experiencing- nothing new there really. She told him about her vacation to Paris and her brand new coat and her four dresses and about how she had then travelled over to Italy to find the perfect matching shoes and purses for all four. Nate, as you can imagine, was enthralled.

Later, Nate talked Sophie through his newest case as he tried to work it out aloud. It was something he had occasionally done with Maggie, especially back when they still worked together. He didn't tell Sophie that, but he thought it nevertheless. Maggie, however, was not quite as helpful as Sophie. Maggie gave him facts and figures and occasionally threw out a good idea; Sophie, on the other hand, solved the crime.

That night, Sophie slept in Nate's shirt and a pair of his boxers. She took his bed and he stayed on the couch.

Over the next few nights, Nate and Sophie toured Boston together. They rode the duck tours, walked the freedom trail, and got lost trying to find a place to rent a movie and ended up going to the theatre instead. They went out to the North End for Italian and out to Chinatown for some good Asian cuisine. They went to a nice little mom and pop restaurant and got brunch the one morning Sophie was too lazy to get out of bed at a decent time. Nate also surprised her with waffles one more and eggs the next and chicken alfredo for dinner one night.

On Friday, they went to Newberry Street, because Sophie had never been. She dragged him from shop to shop, but not so much to buy things as to torture him for the fun of it. In the end, she rewarded him with ice cream for the walk back to the subway. They had, by Friday, figured out where they could rent a movie and planned to watch it after their return from Newberry.

But Nate was much too distracted for movies. Sophie had made the mistake- or perhaps made the plan- to wear a slightly low cut, rather cute pink blouse. This blouse left quite a lot of skin exposed and, it seemed, that had caught the attention of his lips and simply wouldn't let them go. He kept kissing her, grazing his teeth over the exposed flesh. She just smiled and hit him playful. "Nate, stop it. I'm trying to watch."

"You've seen this movie thousands of times. You'd think you could quote it by now."

"I can, but I still enjoy actually seeing it."

Talking just made his lips more distracted, this time specifically by her lips.

He kissed her, hard on the lips. His right hand tangled through her hand and his left slid up her thigh. She gasped in surprise but she didn't pull back. When he deepened the kiss, she moaned. Her hand moved to rest on his jaw. His eyes fluttered opened, just for a moment, to see her.

She pulled away and he smirked at her. His eyes beamed a little too playfully, almost like he was buzzed, but he wasn't. He was just happy.

"What has gotten into you?"

"You, I suppose. I've just... I've enjoyed the last few days."

"I'm glad."

"I want to kiss you again."

Sophie's face lit up in a laugh. She bit her lip and her eyes sparkled. When he kissed her again, he was gentler. He captured her top lip in his; she sighed against him. His hand stroked her jaw. He kissed her again, and again, and again, each time with mounting passion. He was trying to pour his soul in to his kisses.

At some point, her hands had made their way to lie against his chest. He could feel the pressure on his chest as she pushed him gently back. He complied, releasing her from his kisses, but without understanding why. She smiled at him, kissed him quickly to reassure him. Then she took his hands in hers and stood, pulling him off the couch to follow her.

He tried to step closer. He wanted to reach out to her, to pull her against him, and kiss her again. But she wouldn't let him. He watched her fingers as they slowly slid light pink cotton over an ebony button, then did it again, and again, until her blouse was hanging open. She dragged the shirt over her skin, slowly pulling it over her shoulders, down her arms. She let go and it dropped to the floor. His eyes followed her hands- they ran over exposed belly and stopped at the fasten of her jeans. Dark jeans which he quite liked on her- they clung to her hips and butt without being too tight- except he knew that he would quite like them a lot more once they were in a pile with her blouse. He wasn't disappointed.

She stood before him like a Greek goddess, if Greek goddesses had worn tiny, lacy bras and matching panties. But the idea was the same. She was all soft skin- skin tanned away from its natural British pale until it became almost universal, letting her be anything. He reached out for her, trailing his hands over gentle curves. She was the true definition of beauty, the exact proportions a woman should be. The exact everything. He pulled her to him, feeling her nakedness against his clothed body. Her lips were slightly parted; her cheeks had reddened, almost blushed. He had known all along how he felt about Sophie, but it was in this moment when he knew it- he was in love with Sophie Devereaux.

Later, Sophie cuddled into his arms and he adjusted a pillow beneath his head. They laid there for a while, talking about nothing in particular, but simply enjoying each other's company. But something was bothering Sophie, something she couldn't shake. It was the same reason why she didn't plan on coming to Boston, and the reason why she had gotten on the plane to America.

Sophie's voice broke the stillness when she said rather suddenly, "This is going to come out wrong, but I feel like I need to say it now and not forever down the road where it's likely to hurt more." Sophie wasn't looking at him, she was playing with the curls on his chest. "We aren't a couple, right? I mean, I love being with you, you're my best mate. I even... I really like you a lot, Nate, and I like this. I like holding you and kissing you," she was looking at him now, pledging him to understand. She didn't want to have to say it. "I just don't want you to think that... well that this is permanent."

If they had been a normal couple, normal people with a normal relationship, that might have hurt Nate's feelings. But, as it was, Nate understood Sophie more than he potentially knew himself. "I know." He kissed her forehead and held her tighter. "I didn't expect this to change anything about our relationship."

"I run, you chase?"

"Exactly."

"But we can still have sex, right?" The richness of his laugh surprised her; she found herself laughing along with him. Secluded by the white walls of his bedroom and warmed by his soft blankets, Sophie felt at peace for the first time in a long time. Because she had Nate, the only man who had ever understood her. He was the only man who had the strength to chase her, knowing that, in the end, he would have to let her go. He was also the only man stupid enough to never stop chasing.

/-/


	4. January 2005 to December 2006

In the months that followed their week in Boston, Nate learned a lot more about Sophie Devereaux than he ever dreamt he would. He realized that she had an addiction to shoe shopping, the expensive kind, and that she was more than happy to drag him along whenever she went. He discovered that she loved chicken alfredo, but mostly only if they were in Italy. She also enjoyed getting take out from restaurants and eating it while watching old movies. He found that she likes it rough almost as much as she likes it gentle, that she purrs when he kisses her breasts and moans when he bites her neck. He noticed that her feet are almost always cold and that waking up to her naked and pressed against him was the most glorious feeling.

The most interesting thing he had learned was that stealing made Sophie horny. This fact was gleaned after extensive observations made over the course of 2005. These instances may be important to consider currently:

He formed his theory after Sophie stole two million dollars' worth of diamonds in March of 2005. She was waiting for him at his apartment. She flirted excitedly and was rather over involved in taunting him with her body. When she kissed him, she seemed almost drunk on the thrill. Then, once she'd had her fun, she left.

Once, in June of 2005, he chased her from an auction house where she had stolen over eight hundred thousand dollars' worth of artwork. She led him through a maze of unfamiliar Scottish streets. When he found her, she was in a secluded alley, leaning up against a house wall. She was breathless and pulled him against her. She kissed him passionately and tore at his shirt to find skin and release his belt. The adrenaline coursing through him made him response easily, without an inhibition at all.

There was a time in Venice when she robbed a dirty lawyer of nearly three million. After that, she laid splayed out on the floor of her penthouse with Nate thrusting inside of her. There was something more acceptable about this con for Nate and they stayed up most of the night celebrating.

Sophie robbed a bank in Boston in October by convincing the manager that she had rights to a billionaire's account. She never told Nate just how much she stole but she bought him a new car- some kind of very expensive looking foreign sports car__with leather seats. They drove together well out of the city and stopped somewhere where they wouldn't be seen. Nate had never had sex of any kind in a car; Sophie corrected that tragedy that night- all kinds of them.

She showed up at his apartment in December. He never learned what she stole or how she did it, but he recognized the glow of success by that point. He gave her wine and lit the fireplace. That night they had sex while laid out on a blanket in front of the fire. They cuddled together in the warmth; the afterglow and endorphins and remnants of wine quieted them until they fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms.

When he turned up at the Victoria Art Museum (Bath, England) in February of 2006, he found her halfway through one of her cons. When he watched her grifting, there was always an energy surrounding her, a glow of power and confidence. She even seemed high almost, high off the euphoria and attention. She used that to string him along, turn him on, and finally seduce him that night.

While their meeting in Bath had led Nate to be certain about his theory, it also had quite a number of other ramifications for their relationship. The most important of which began just as Nate lowered his drained, sleek body over Sophie's. He nuzzled her hair with his nose and kissed her jaw. She sighed beneath him, warm and content and satisfied for the night.

The night was silent. They were alone in the world and happy with that fact. Only Nate's voice shattered that allusion. "Is Sophie your real name?"

Her hands, which had been lightly scratching his back, caught his face between them and brought his face level with hers. "Does it matter?"

Something in her dark gaze made him want to say no and some voice in his mind was nagging him to say as much. But he listened to neither. "Yes. You're my best friend. I trust you more than anyone else on this Earth, and yet you've never trusted me with something as basic as your real name. So, yes, it matters."

Sophie pushed him off of her. She rolled onto her side, held her head up in the palm of her hand. She pulled the covers to her chest. "The woman you met back in Paris, the woman you've chased all over Europe, the woman you've kissed and bedded and... and trust- that woman is Sophie Devereaux. I won't lie to you, Nate, Sophie isn't the only person I live as. Every persona I portray has some personal meaning to me. I know everything about them- they are me, in a sense, some more than others. Sophie is my favourite. I spend the most time as her and, maybe, that makes me her. I don't know."

Nate was silent as he tried to wrap his mind around the complex reality of Sophie's life.

"When you're not being Sophie, when you're conning different people, do you just stop thinking about me?"

"Not exactly." Nate just looked at her. She held the blankets tighter to her chest. "You're like a constant to me, Nate. You're always a part of the story, always somewhere in each persona's life. You just vary in... exactly what role you play in my life."

"And what role do I play in Sophie Devereaux's life?"

Sophie tried to smile, but her eyes didn't quite shine enough to make it real. She cupped his cheek in her hand and stroked his cold skin with her thumb. "You're my best friend and confidant. You're the one who keeps me on my toes and keeps pushing me to get better, cleverer. You're my rock, Nate, the only reason, I sometimes think, that I remember exactly who Sophie is."

"But who are you really?"

"I really am Sophie."

"I know..." She kissed him gently, but he pulled away. Her eyes searched his but all they found was confusion. "I don't know if I can do this."

"Do what?"

"Be half involved with a criminal." Sophie had no idea what to say to that, so she said nothing. "You lie for a living. You're entire nature is to be dishonest." He paused to realize exactly what he said. "And that's why I have no idea why I trust you so much. You're... I... I shouldn't like you. I should avoid you- I should actually turn you in to the authorities, but I haven't and I'm still not completely sure why I haven't."

"Because, on some weird level, you completely understand what I do. Admit it, Nate, you weren't really that bothered in Paris when you helped me. You don't completely condemn my kind of theft because it doesn't mean anything. Steal from a rich man and he'll simply get the money back some other way. Hell, he'll even enjoy it on some crazed level. There's no real crime, as long as no one gets hurt. And the thrill, that's completely worth it."

"You're still a liar."

"So are actresses, and yet they're paid millions and are plastered all over magazines." She leaned closer to him, until their breath mingled and her nose almost touched his. "Why haven't you turned me in? You've had plenty of opportunities." When he didn't answer, she rolled away from him until she could see his whole face clearly again. "Because you know I'm right."

Something changed ever so slightly in their relationship after that. Nate could never tell exactly what it was that changed, but he could sense it. Sophie left him letters much less often. Her crimes were even more meticulous than usual, almost like something had possessed her to perform at her absolute height. Like always, she still found him and spent his days off with him, she still invaded his hotel rooms and still seduced him when she was in the mood. But her actions seemed less heated, less intimate and more like habits. He thought that, maybe, she was just waiting for something.

As it turns out, had Nate been able to read Sophie's mind, he would have found that he was quite correct. Sophie was waiting for something- she was waiting to be handcuffed and stuffed into a cop car. She was waiting for his trust to wear thin and his good-guy morality to finally flare up inside of him. It never did, of course, but Sophie was always well on guard waiting for it.

In June of 2006, Sam was diagnosed with cancer. After that, the doctor's appointments and radiation and chemo and nausea started. Nate was living with Maggie again, though he slept mostly in the guest bedroom. He hardly took any cases and did his best to remain on the west coast. He worked tirelessly and spent nearly every waking hour at the hospital with Sam or caring for him after his treatments. He held Maggie as she cried and he drank into the early hours of the morning before he shaved and showered and headed back to work.

He didn't see Sophie during this time. When he found out about Sam, he had no idea where she was or how to get in contact with her. He had expected to see her, or at least hear from her, as was her tendency. They were together, after all, only when it suited the will of Sophie Deveraeux.

Nate got a call in September. Sam's birthday was the day before. They had celebrated with cake that Sam could hardly keep down and a few portable toys that could be brought to the hospital. Nate hadn't slept properly in days. He was half drunk and making his way back to the hospital to see Sam. All of which was why he didn't bother with the caller id when he answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey." Her voice was soft but her tone brief and slightly confused.

"Sophie?"

"Sorry it's been so long. I, em… I had some trouble in Peru. Anyway, I'm here in Boston. I went to your apartment but… you moved?"

"I'm back in LA."

"Oh." It's rare to know someone well enough to determine their mood with one short word, but Nate knew Sophie that well. He heard the way that one sound echoed with uncertainty. He heard the way she broke herself off and the way her breathing had changed- he heard her guard come up.

"Sam's sick. Really sick, Sophie."

"What's wrong?"

"He has cancer. Leukemia. He was diagnosed in June. He's been through all sorts of treatments, but nothing's working. He's just getting worse. He's been in the hospital all week… I moved back in with Maggie to help."

"Oh god, Nate. I am so sorry… I don't know what to say. Do you, do you need anything? I…"

He knew the gist of what she was going to say. 'I have money, if you need it' or 'I know people, I could help get him in to see the best doctors out there'. He knew how true those statements were. He knew that she could open doors that he never could get near and that she could dole out millions without it damaging her worth. He knew that and he was tempted by that fact, but he also knew that he could never accept such help from her. She knew that too.

There was one thing she could do, one thing that he wanted her to offer, but he knew that she wouldn't offer that either. Not when their relationship was already so confused and Maggie was back in the picture.

They spoke for a while, with Sophie leading the conversation much of the time. They didn't talk about Sam or Maggie or what it all meant for them, they just talked. That night, Nate slept in a hospital chair again and he woke up to the sound of his son's heart beeping on a monitor. It was a pattern that continued day after day, week after week, for three months. Sophie would call every Monday and Thursday at seven and for an hour they would talk. He rarely had much to say; she told him "stories" about "fictional people" and "made-up" thefts. He still drank too much and hardly laughed, but it never seemed to drain her, not like it did Maggie.

When Sam died in December of 2006, Nate held Maggie until she had worn herself out crying. He drank the last of the whiskey he had stashed in his room and dialled Sophie's number. They didn't talk about Sam or the funeral arrangements or the numbness spreading throughout his body, but Sophie still knew.

Since he last held his son in his arms, all of life had been a blur. The bills, the funeral, the coffin, the flowers, the mass. He didn't hear anything. He saw the world in fast-forward.

And then he saw her. She stood far from the funeral procession. She wore a modest black dress, so very unusual for her. Warm, black boots, with heels that added to her height. Her hair was twisted back and hidden beneath a classy little European- looking hat that fit her style so well. She wore a netted veil over her face, but he still recognized her.

The priest spoke his final words to the mahogany casket. Maggie placed flowers, someone patted him on the back, the priest invited everyone back to the church for food- he only saw her.

The procession faded until everyone had left, even Maggie who had ridden back with her parents. Sophie approached slowly. She laid a lone daisy against Sam's tombstone- his son had a tombstone. It didn't seem possible; it couldn't be real.

There was a murmur in the wind, almost voice-like. Then Sophie's arms were around him, pulling his head into her neck and rubbing her fingers through his curls. Her scent broke through the fog. It all brought him back to the world- forced him to experience the ice whipping through his jacket, to realize the finality of what happened, to be overwhelmed by pain and sorrow and joy and anger and guilt and hatred and love- and it broke him. He stood on frozen cemetery ground, stock stiff against his best friend, and cried.

Time had no meaning to Nate. Once he calmed, he pulled away from Sophie, dried his face and breathed as deeply as his snotty nose would allow. He couldn't tell how long ago everyone had left- enough for his feet to go numb, or maybe they had before hand.

"Thank-you for being here."

"Not even an offer to steal the Mona Lisa could have kept me away... well maybe." She winked and he managed a small smile in response.

"I- I feel lost, Sophie."

She stroked his cold, damp cheek. "You're going to be ok. You've got Maggie-"

She felt his head shake against her palm. He couldn't quite meet her gaze. "I need- I'll just make things worse for her. I need some time on my own. I need... I don't know, Sophie." He took her face between his hands- he could hardly feel her smooth skin his hands were so numb. His lips were cold and chapped from the wind, but somehow hers seemed immune to the weather. They were soft under his, delicate and warming. He tried not to cry as he kissed her. His stubbly cheek grazed over hers; his lips pressed against her ear. "I love you, Sophie Devereaux. I just need some time before I can be in love with you."

She kissed his cheek and stepped back from his embrace. "I know. I'll be waiting. Whenever you're ready, come find me."

She didn't say any more. Didn't kiss him one last time, or hold him. She just turned and started walking. He watched her walk away and, this time, he knew that it was final. He wouldn't find anymore letters on his hotel pillows. She wouldn't show up and demand to be taken out for drinks or dinner or, god help him, shopping. Right then, standing next to his son's grave, he couldn't imagine a day when he would be ready.

He kept his hands shoved in his coat pockets as he stood there, simply unwilling to move. His eyes bore into her retreating back and they begged her to turn around, to come back. He waited, ignored the wind and the cold and his own exhaustion, but she was gone.

/-/


	5. June 2010

Occurs shortly after Season Three's "Inside Job".

/-

It wasn't quite four years later, June of 2010, when he stood in his Boston apartment, making breakfast. Across from him, Sophie Devereaux, now his very own team's grifter, sat, legs crossed and elbows leaning on the table as she watched him.

"Here, try this." Nate manoeuvred a fork towards Sophie. She looked at it, cross-eyed, before steadying the fork and guiding it into her mouth. She let out a soft moan and nodded in approval.

"I think I might like this new tradition."

"What?" He smirked and went back to tending to her omelette. "Me making you breakfast every morning?" She shrugged. "I thought you were still mad at me?"

"A few more breakfasts like this, and I might change my mind." Nate laughed and shook his head at her. The spatula in his hand scooped her omelette out of the pan and flipped it onto the plate.

Nate went quiet for a while. He cracked a few eggs, and sprinkled cheese and peppers and tomatoes. Sophie watched him, silently chewing and wondering what was going on inside of that brilliant head of his. His eyes found hers suddenly. "There was something I wanted to tell you, before."

"Before what?"

He moved his omelette around on the pan and glanced back at her. "Before the whole Parker and Wakefield incident."

Sophie nodded and set her fork down. "Ok."

He sighed into his omelette and watched the egg as it darkened for a long time before he looked back up at her. "I know it's taken me a lot longer than you had hoped and... and I know that I deserve to have you sitting there still... still even..."

He jerked his head away and a low guttural noise escaped him. Nate Ford has never been the best with words, especially when they deal with emotions or his relationship with Sophie. But then he feels her hand slide over his. He glances first down at their hands and then up to her face. She was smiling at him softly. His face softened; he loved how well she understood him even when he was a blundering mess.

"I guess I just wanted to say that I'm ready whenever- whenever you are."


End file.
